


After All

by CasCase



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Coda, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:19:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasCase/pseuds/CasCase
Summary: Castiel burned from the inside out and now finds himself emerging from a luminescent fog into a strangely familiar kitchen.In which Castiel gets to confront Chuck . . . sort of . . .Heavily inspired/influenced by Chapter 35: King's Cross fromHarry Potter and the Deathly Hallowsby JK Rowling





	After All

“NO!”  
Piercing pain, an anguished cry, blinding light, burning . . . burning from the inside out . . .

 

The first thing Castiel felt was warmth; an overwhelming sensation, like dipping into a bath after a long day. This was immediately followed by a nostalgic feeling: he hadn’t felt properly _warm_ since he’d been human. He hadn’t felt cold, either. It was a perk of grace that he was immune to environmental factors and sensations like _warm_ and _cold_.  


So, immediately, this was strange. Whatever awaited him after the end as an angel, he hadn’t expected warmth. And, certainly, this was the end. He’d felt the angel blade pierce him through the back so cold it burned, until he was burning up from the inside out. Darkness lay heavy in his vision, but he didn’t seem to be floating. In fact, there was definitely something solid under his back.  


Which meant he _had_ a back. Again, strange. He would have thought, if he’d been corporeal in The Empty (or wherever angels went after they were destroyed), it would have been in his True Form. That would have made this position extremely uncomfortable, and Castiel was, in fact, very comfortable indeed.  


As he felt the inches of his skin against the warm surface beneath him, it occurred to him that he was _lying_ on something. And that he was naked. If he was naked and lying on a surface, then perhaps the darkness pressing in around him was . . .  


_Cas!_  


The echo in his head startled him. He opened his eyes and blinked against bright white light flooding them. Now that he could see, he realized that he was definitely in a space, somewhere, though he couldn’t tell where. Squinting against the light, he gently sat up and looked around at his surroundings.  


It was probably _not_ The Empty, though he’d never been there so he couldn’t say for sure. The glow of the space was somewhat reminiscent of Heaven, but Heaven was cool, not warm, and the more he stared into the formless brightness, the more it seemed to take shape. Curious, Castiel raised himself from the ground (perhaps a floor? It was beginning to feel like tile under his bare feet) and moved forward, a set of shapes clearing from a kind of luminescent fog.  


A table. Some chairs. Familiar to his eyes and his touch.  


And someone at the table, drinking from what was clearly now a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug.  


“Hello, Castiel,” said Chuck, a small smile not quite reaching his eyes.  


“God?” croaked Cas, his voice rough from disuse. Cas wasn’t sure how to refer to him. The last time they’d met, they hadn’t exactly gotten to speak to one another directly. Chuck waved a hand.  


“None of that, Cas,” he replied. “Can I call you ‘Cas’?”  


He was the first to have asked. His stomach twisted at the thought of the nickname, but Castiel thought it impolite to refuse.  


“Cas is fine,” he said. Chuck nodded.  


“Then you can call me Chuck.” Castiel didn’t fail to notice that, despite the mug he currently sipped from, he didn’t want to be called “Dad.” He gestured to the chair in front of Cas. “Please, sit down.”  


Castiel pulled the chair out from the table and moved to sit, realizing as he did so that he was clothed once again. But not in his usual attire. Jimmy’s suit had given way to a pair of comfortable black pants and a soft gray t-shirt, covered by a gray robe. He lifted the robe in his hands to inspect his new outfit, catching a small scent of something familiar. Wrapping the robe around himself and inhaling the familiar, spicy scent deeply, Castiel slid into the chair and looked across the table at Chuck.  


_Castiel!_  


“Where am I?” Cas asked. Chuck smirked, looking around.  


“I think you’ll have to tell me,” he said. “This isn’t my rodeo.”  


Cas flashed a cursory glance around the space, recognition pressing at the edge of his consciousness, but quickly focused back on Chuck. There were more important matters.  


“Am I dead?” he asked.  


“Yes,” Chuck answered, sympathetic. Cas’s shoulders fell.  


“And Dean?”  


“He’s fine. For now.”  


_Cas, please . . ._  


Cas tilted his head, trying to ignore the echoes. “Lucifer?” he asked again. Chuck cleared his throat.  


“We don’t have much time, Castiel. Are you sure these are the questions you want to ask?”  


It was difficult, but Cas managed to tear his thoughts away from what might be happening to his friends, to Dean. He glanced around the room again, still clouded in soupy mist. “What am I doing here? Where is _here_?”  


“That’s complicated.”  


Cas glared. “Then un-complicate it.” Chuck sipped from his mug.  


“We’re a half step out of time with the universe,” he said. “In the space between the seconds.”  


“You’re not making sense.”  


“Then maybe you should ask questions that you actually need the answers to?” Chuck challenged. Cas continued to squint at him.  


“Okay, fine. Why did you leave? Why did you let everything go to hell?” he challenged. Chuck scrubbed at his face with his free hand.  


“I already told Dean the answer to that, Cas.”  


“No, you told him why you left humanity,” countered Cas. “Why did you leave Heaven? The angels? Everything fell apart because you left.”  


“I admit, I thought that Heaven could run itself on its own. Angels were designed to be . . . cogs in a machine. It should have worked! But I underestimated the thirst for power from the archangels, and when the Apocalypse started, I thought . . . well . . .”  


Cas watched Chuck take another long sip of his drink. “I was wrong about the angels. But I had a backup plan.”  


“And what was this backup plan?”  


“You.”  


Cas was instantly derailed. He gaped, mouth open, as Chuck continued to sip calmly. What could that possibly mean?  


“What do you mean, me?” he croaked. Chuck shrugged.  


“Machines, Castiel. That’s what angels were designed to be. Each their own little part in a much larger works, chugging away, maintaining the order of the universe. But anyone who understands systems knows that they can . . . unravel. Entropy, you know? Anyway, I needed a backdoor, an escape hatch, just in case someone used my words against me.”  


“And what was this ‘back door’?” Cas asked, putting air quotes around the phrase.  


“Well, it was you.”  


Cas blinked again. “Me?!”  


“Well, yeah. You didn’t figure it out? I mean, come on, you rebelled against Heaven, brought down Raphael, averted the Apocalypse twice . . . You were even called out on it. Naomi said it.”  


“’The spanner in the works . . .’” mused Cas, brain spinning.  


“That’s right!” replied Chuck, happy that he seemed to catch on. Cas, however, had begun to seethe.  


“So, all of it, everything I did . . . was destined to be? It was _fate_? After all I’ve been through in the name of free will . . . I killed for it! I murdered angels in pursuit of it! I unleashed the Leviathans and set Lucifer free . . . And after all of that, you’re telling me that I was _meant_ to rebel? The what the hell was any of it _FOR_?!”  


He’d begun to shout, and Chuck cowered. “No, no, Castiel! That wasn’t it at all! I made you different, I made you _special_ so that you _could_ choose humanity over Heaven! Angels are imperfect, the lack of choice makes them easy to corrupt. But you, I gave the _freedom_ to decide for yourself! You became the only angel that could _feel_ \--”  


“I am just like Lucifer!” exclaimed Cas. “I rebelled, I caused the Fall, I’ve brought so much death . . . I let the Nephilim control me! How can I let its influence back into that world?”  


“No, Castiel.” Chuck’s voice was calm and firm. “Your choices are what made you different. You are nothing like Lucifer. And the Nephilim’s influence is gone.”  


Tears began to well in Castiel’s eyes as Chuck laid a hand on his upper arm. Cas wanted to jerk away, but he found he couldn’t; he leaned into the touch instead.  


“Why were we made to suffer so much?” Cas asked brokenly. But something had cracked. These tears were not for the deeds he had done, but rather for himself. “I would have given anything to go back and choose again.”  


“And what would you choose instead?”  


Cas was brought up short. Would he choose to stay behind, to leave another to scoop Dean’s soul from Hell? Perhaps he would have left the Winchesters then, let another guide them and set them on their course. But what would his life have been, without them? Even now, his words as he sat dying on that awful plaid couch just a few short months ago rang true. His moments with the Winchesters, with Dean, meant more than the millennia he had spent alone before, or any years he could have had after.  


“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, my son,” breathed Chuck. Cas looked up through misty eyes.  


“You’re apologizing? To me?” Chuck nodded. “Why?”  


“Because, of all the angels, you needed my guidance most of all. You’ve always had the capacity for these, very _human_ emotions. I gave you the capacity for choice, for change, and left you alone. You’ve suffered for being different, and for that I am truly sorry. But I will never apologize for what I allowed you to become.”  


Cas swallowed hard, noticing for the first time that he had clenched his fists on the table. It was still so familiar . . . but thoughts of his life before the mist were growing fainter, harder to pull from the back of his mind.  


“Besides,” continued Chuck, “do you really think that it was all done in the name of ‘free will’?”  


_Cas, please wake up._   


Castiel’s stomach lurched, like when he dove in mid-flight. There were important things to ask . . . things he need to know . . . but something was pulling at his insides, gripping his heart. He twisted his hands in the robe he wore and continued in a quiet voice.  


“Am I . . . is this . . . you said I was dead.”  


“Ah,” sighed Chuck. “Technically, yes, you are.”  


“But you’ve brought me back before.”  


Chuck pressed his fingers together and sat back. “I have.”  


“So you could, again?”  


“I could.”  


Cas flared with anger. “So, why don’t you?”  


Chuck looked at him for a long moment, then leaned forward. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”  


_Yes!_ thought Cas, but then hesitated. _I am needed._ But was that true? It was so warm here, and the world was cold. Earth, humanity, Lucifer, Kelly, Dean—everyone and everything he’d failed, he could leave behind. Perhaps it was best, maybe it was time. As Billie had said, what dies should stay dead, and this . . . There was no death more final for an angel than an angel blade. This should be it, no coming back.  


And that was a relief. To be able to slip away, become part of the universe again. Float as wavelengths, atoms, starstuff for eternity . . . at peace. No more fighting, no more suffering, no more confusing feelings and an aching chest that twisted every time he thought, or got near . . .  


“I am tired,” Cas replied, finally. Chuck nodded.  


“This is your choice, Cas,” he said. “Just to make that clear. This isn’t the final stop. Say the word, and I send you back. Or on. But the final choice is up to you. It’s the least I can do for you.”  


“Will . . . will Dean . . .?” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but Chuck understood.  


“I can’t say, Castiel. Like I said before, you three managed to throw off every hint of a plan I’d put in place. This is all new, now.”  


Dean would go on, Cas knew. As much as he might miss Cas, he would have his brother, his mother, his family back together. Besides, Dean had never needed Cas as much as Cas needed Dean. And that ache, the pain he’d felt in his chest for so long . . . He could throw them all off and be _Castiel_ , the angel again. Not this strange, part-human who laughed and had friends and a family and hungered for . . . who loved . . . If this was what he truly wanted, Dean would never ask him to give this up.  


_Castiel_ , please, twisted his heart, and Cas could hardly breathe. He gripped the table, steadying himself.  


“The Nephilim is alive,” said Cas, trying not to gasp for breath.  


“Yes,” replied Chuck.  


“And Dean and Sam . . . they will need help.”  


“Yup.”  


“And . . . and I could give it to them?”  


Chuck merely shrugged. But as he spoke, their surroundings were thrown into sharp relief. A familiar scrubbed wood table set amongst old-fashioned tile with industrial appliances and old, well-used pots and pans . . . he would know this kitchen anywhere.  


_Cas, I’m begging you. Please come back._   


“They’re my family, Chuck,” replied Cas, voice stronger than before. “I can’t leave them behind.”  


Chuck smiled. “Spoken like a true Winchester,” he said, leaning over the table with two fingers raised. “Now, do you have any last questions before I send you back?”  


“I have so many questions.”  


“Well, write them down so next time you see me, you won’t forget.”  


Cas squinted at him. Chuck shrugged. “It usually works for me.”  


With a soft touch to the forehead, Cas’s world spun and dissolved around him, sending him reeling into darkness and pain . . .

 

 

Dean cradled the still, empty body in his arms as the sun rose across the lake. It was beautiful here. He couldn’t have picked a better final resting place for Cas.  


He choked on a sob, breaking through the numbness he’d managed to maintain until this point.  


The body was growing cold in his arms, all of the grace-warmed skin fading to a dull ambient temperature. It was a shell, Dean knew, all of the atoms pressed into Jimmy’s shape held none of Cas’s consciousness anymore. But he gripped it tight, holding on to the last piece he had of Cas.  


“Please,” he murmured, a constant litany under his breath. “Cas, please . . .”  


At first, he thought the warmth spreading under his palms was a trick, maybe his own body heat warming up the clothing and skin under them. Then, maybe it was the sun, rising to creep up the beach toward them.  


But then it was too warm to ignore, and Dean couldn’t dare to hope . . .  


There was definitely color in his face, now, and if he could just check . . .  


Gently, Dean pressed a hand to Cas’s cheek, and it was warm. Not grace-warm, but warm like he’d just come out of a bath. Like humanity.  


“Cas?” he breathed, a seed of hope starting to burn in his chest.  


Moments he waited, hardly daring to breathe, and then, slowly, azure eyes opened to blink into the sun.  


“Cas?!” he demanded, hand still cupping Cas’s face. Cas blinked, then something slipped in behind them, like a switch flipped.  


“Cas!” he snapped, wouldn’t allow himself to beg . . .  


Blue eyes met green. The world stood still.  


“Hello, Dean.”


End file.
